


A Silence In The Burning

by besully (Briar_Elwood)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Briar_Elwood/pseuds/besully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was kidnapped by Moriarty five months ago. Sherlock's been searching uselessly for him ever since. When John shows up on the doorstep of 221 a different man, Sherlock makes it his mission to bring back the John everyone knows and loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

It was the most frustrating day yet. I'd already had a row with everyone: Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, so on. This meant they were all, even Mycroft, keeping their distance. Up to this point, there had been a part of me that was rather impressed with Moriarty. But now, after five months, two weeks and four days, I wasn't impressed anymore. He was giving me nothing, absolutely nothing, and John Watson was still missing.

Five months, two weeks and four days.

Five months. Two weeks. Four days.

No leads. No hints. No clues.

Hell, the only reason I knew it was Moriarty was because he'd left a note.  _Missing you. xxx Jim_  That and the fact that no one else was this good.

We thought we had found some leads throughout the past five months, two weeks and four days. Followed them all and they all turned out to be dead ends. I had to keep reminding myself that if John was dead, Moriarty would have surely let me know somehow, would have rubbed it in my face. Mycroft and Lestrade had taken to trying to convince me to give up and move on. Which would explain why they were currently avoiding 221B.

My mind was moving too quickly with nowhere to go. It was maddening. I soon found myself tearing through my bedroom to find a stash of seven percent solution. The sound of the doorbell pierced through my thoughts just as my fingers closed around a syringe. I growled, letting it go. I couldn't risk being caught. I wasn't far enough gone not to realize that.

Whoever was at the door was impatient, jabbing at the doorbell repeatedly. Letting out a roar, I stormed to the door and flung it open.

No one was there.

No, wait, look down.

"John." The word left my lips as a gasp and I fell to my knees, reaching out to him. John was sprawled on the steps, unmoving. He looked... fine, actually. Physically, anyway. No blood, no broken bones. He just looked exhausted.

"John," I murmured, fingers brushing too-long hair out of his eyes. They were staring unseeingly, wide and emotionless. "John," I said louder, stomach clenching. Physically John was fine, but evidence was piling up against his being mentally okay.

Gritting my teeth, I wrapped my arms around John, pulling him to his feet. He'd lost weight, I realized immediately. A lot of it.

It was a difficult journey up to our flat, despite his weight loss. John was continuing to be unresponsive, meaning I had to literally drag him up the stairs. I pulled him to the couch, sitting him on it. He seemed to have control enough to stay sitting instead of toppling over, but his eyes were still wide and blank. I crouched down in front of him, trying to meet his gaze.

"John," I said firmly, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. His gaze shifted slowly, finally settling on me. I waited for some form of recognition, but it never came.

"It's me: Sherlock," I prompted. His eyes flicked down to my mouth and I frowned. "Can you hear me?"

No response. I lifted my hand from his shoulder and snapped my fingers centimetres from his ear. Still no response. Moriarty had done something to John's hearing.

John was still staring at me unblinkingly. There was still no indication that he recognized me, but the stare was so intense I believed I was acting as a type of lifeline for him. I moved my hand to his knee, giving it what I hoped was a reassuring squeeze as I pulled out my phone and dialed Mycroft.

" _Oh, you're speaking to me now?_ "

"I need you to send a doctor to Baker Street," I said tersely, ignoring Mycroft's snide question.

" _Why? What have you d-_ "

"John's back."

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. " _Take him to the hospital, Sherlock._ "

"John doesn't even recognize me. I'm not going to take him to a public building full of strangers."

Silence again. " _I'll have someone there within a half hour._ "

"Good," I bit out, hanging up. John hadn't moved throughout the whole phone call. It was unnerving, really. He seemed empty, like there was no one behind those blue eyes. I shifted my weight, staying in his gaze, and waited for Mycroft's doctor to arrive.

* * *

Pale man.

Nice eyes.

Warm touch.

Trust.

Why?

Doesn't matter.

Trust.

Plump woman.

Cold hands.

Pale man nice eyes warm touch it's okay.

Focus on pale man.

Safe.

Why?

Doesn't matter.

Safe.


	2. Part Two

The first stage was the most terrifying. John continued to be unresponsive to any sort of stimuli. After a couple of days I managed to get him to start eating (liquids only, with a spoon pressed against his lips-it was a rather painstaking process) but that was the extent of his responses. He would sleep, eyes slowly falling shut until he would suddenly slump over on the couch. The most unpleasant part of all of this was that John's unresponsiveness meant he would soil his own pants. Luckily, I'd foreseen this problem before it first happened and had taken precautions. Still. It hadn't been the most sanitary of experiences.

A few days after John first showed up on the doorstep, Mycroft stopped by to visit. He had brought some supplies to help out. He took one look at John, though, and I knew I wasn't going to like what he was about to say.

"He needs professional help, Sherlock."

I glowered at him as I pressed a spoon patiently against John's lips. "I'm taking care of this, Mycroft."

"I understand that, but you can't do this on your own," Mycroft said with a sigh, setting down the supplies. I glanced over at them. Nutrient rich liquids, adult diapers... It was all there. Good. I fought with John for a moment to release the spoon from between his teeth before replying to Mycroft.

"Yes, I can. And I will."

"Sherlock..."

My eyes snapped up to Mycroft with a glare. "I'm not letting any so-called professional do the job that is mine and mine alone to do."

Mycroft gritted his teeth. "You do realize that you're playing right into Moriarty's hands this way? He knew you'd be stubborn like this."

"Yes, well, good for him. He knows me well. Better than you do, obviously," I replied testily, turning my attention back to feeding John. Mycroft was silent for a moment and I could easily feel his stare flicking between myself and John.

"I suppose you'll be wanting me to hunt him down," he said finally.

"If you wouldn't mind."

To my relief, Mycroft didn't say another word as he left the flat. I set the spoon down and brushed a hand through John's hair, which I had cut back to its familiar length.

"John," I murmured. Ever since he'd come home, it had just been so hard. No reactions, no sign that the John I knew and remembered was there. Getting him to eat had been a small victory, the thrill of which had worn off quickly. It was a blessing that I was used to not sleeping much because now I was spending all of my time making sure John was all right. Even when he slept I couldn't get myself to relax enough to leave his side.

My fingers still in his hair, I reached out with my other hand to grasp his. The warmth from his hands was somewhat comforting: a reminder that he was at least still alive. I squeezed them ever so gently.

A flicker of movement and I looked up. John's gaze had shifted to look at me. I stared back at him, trying to convey through the gaze how much I needed him to come back. It was pointless and ridiculous and I knew that. But a lot of things I had been doing for John for years now were done only for sentiment.

And then something in John's eyes changed. A slight squinting followed by a widening and pupils dilating. I blinked and continued to stare. Were my eyes playing tricks on me? Wishful thinking? My heart jumped to my throat John's hands turned over and grasped mine back.

He recognized me.

* * *

Nasty taste.

Feel better, though.

Deal with it.

Long fingers in hair.

Feels nice.

Warm hand.

Warm hand tightens.

Pale man nice eyes warm touch.

I like him.

Wait.

Pale man nice eyes warm touch.

I know him.

_Sherlock._


	3. Part Three

It was difficult not to get too excited once I realized John recognized me. Thankfully, things did progress steadily for the next stage. With me figuratively holding his hand through the entire process, John re-learned how to use the toilet and began eating food that was a bit more solid. I wasn't willing to teach him the ways of stairs yet so I tried getting him to sleep in my bedroom one night. That hadn't turned out so well. As soon as I flicked off the lights John was stumbling out of the bed in a panic. I had spent the rest of the night trying to calm him down and assure him I was there, he was safe, everything was okay.

But even during that one panicked night, John stayed utterly silent. I continued to talk even though I knew he couldn't hear me. I suppose it was a comfort to myself. And there were times I caught him watching my lips and I slowed down my speech, knowing he was trying to understand.

Slowly, as if he were waking from a dream over several weeks' time, John began to respond to things. This meant that I had to try my best to stay in his line of sight at all times. There were several occasions that I forgot this and, when I returned, no matter how gently, it would startle him. Once he knocked over a cup of tea, tripped over his own feet, and his hand landed directly on the glass shards. The tears streaming down his face as he looked at me with pathetically wide and bright blue eyes were enough to make sure I never made the mistake again.

Because of the failure of the experiment trying to get John to sleep in a proper bed, he continued to sleep on the couch. I wasn't entirely pleased with this, noting the strain it put on his bad shoulder. Luckily, what with personal boundaries having already long been crossed, John had no qualms with my massaging his shoulder to relieve the muscle tension.

His sleeping on the couch also meant I was always there to watch him sleep. There were a couple times, rare as they were, that I did end up falling asleep though it was always a restless nap, and I always woke up terrified something had happened to John. But I wasn't the only one having troubles sleeping. Along with the growing responsiveness and jumpiness, John's nights were growing plagued by nightmares.

These nightmares weren't too bad. Or, at least, John didn't to respond to them too badly. He had had worse reactions to nightmares when he had first moved in to Baker Street. All the same, I would sit in my armchair and watch him whimper and flinch, wishing desperately that there was something I could do. I didn't have the heart (I realized with surprise) to wake him. The times he managed to actually fall asleep it was mainly because he severely needed it. He seemed to dislike the idea of sleeping, keeping his gaze fixed on me until exhaustion forced his eyelids shut. As if he was as afraid of something happening to me while he slept as I was afraid of something happening to him.

One night I was sitting there, watching him, the same familiar desperate thoughts running through my head. John's face was scrunched up and a tear was slipping out from under one tightly shut eyelid. His knees were pulled up to his chin and the tension in his body told me I was going to have to spend a bit longer than usual working at his shoulder when he woke up. Suddenly his eyes snapped open and his head jerked up slightly.

"Sherlock!" he cried loudly.

My mouth dropped open and I stared. John was quickly pulling himself to a sitting position, movements jerky and panicked.

"Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock..." he muttered, eyes looking wildly about. The shock died down ever so slightly and I moved to him, taking his hands in mine.

"I'm here," I cooed needlessly. "John, I'm here, I'm here..."

Eventually he found me, eyes wide with terror softening when they found mine. I let go of one hand and raised it to his face, giving him a genuine smile.

"I'm here."

"Sherlock," he whispered brokenly. My smile widened, tears of gratitude welling in my eyes, and I nodded.

"It's me, John. It's me."

* * *

White.

Too much white.

Darkness.

Too dark.

Smooth voice.

Always there.

Scared.

Endless.

Always scared.

No!

Dream!

No!

Wake up!

Pale man nice eyes warm touch Sherlock

Sherlock!

Where?

Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock

Where?

Pale man nice eyes warm touch Sherlock

Safe.

Not scared.

Sherlock


	4. Part Four

This time it was practically impossible for me to not get too excited. John knew my name. Not only did he recognize me, but he knew my name! Unfortunately, John's progress seemed to hit a bit of a snag at that point. In fact, he seemed to be getting worse.

I learned within a few days that my name could be said in a startling variety of ways. Panicked, calm, eager, careful, absentminded, bashful, irritable, fond, warm, weary, wild, worried, vacant, vicious, urgent, useless, grateful, tense, triumphant, grieving, terrified, sheepish, shy, solemn, suspicious, reluctant, restless, rough, rude, queasy, questioning, confused, pained, polite, obedient, needy, nervous, angry, miserable, longing, jealous, intent, helpless, hungry, frantic, fervent, curious, cautious, brave, bleak, bitter, awkward, anxious...

It wasn't long before I could recognize each inflection for what emotion John was going for. My name started to mean different things. It wasn't just my name anymore. It was a method for John to try to convey what he wanted to say. There were many times I caught him moving his mouth experimentally as if he were trying to find different words, but he always opted to simply use my name. It was frustrating, but I suppose it worked.

The most common meaning of my name was also my least favorite. It seemed that along with the power of speech, John regained quite a bit of his strength. His nightmares got worse, soon worse than when he'd first moved into Baker Street. And he became increasingly more violent.

It was a nightly occurrence now for him to wake up for a nightmare and turn dangerous. I soon had bruises covering my body, but a great part of me didn't even notice. Every time he woke, screaming my name and thrashing about, I would be there instantly, doing my best to hold him tight to my chest. Eventually he'd come back to me, or he'd lose steam and stop struggling.

I stopped sleeping all together. I couldn't risk it. If one his attacks happened during a nap, I wouldn't be aware enough to be there for him. I stopped eating much as well. My main source of sustenance was coffee. A lot of it. Every now and again, I'd order take out, but John was eating more and more every day and most of the food I ordered would end up going to him.

I had to keep reminding myself that we'd made progress. He was eating solid foods, he was using the toilet on his own, he was mobile and responsive, he knew me. He wasn't just an empty shell, a body all but in a coma. John was here, with me. It was just a broken and scarred version of him. Something I intended to fix.

The one thing that was improving that I could see was John seemed to be able to understand more of what I said. He'd watch my lips carefully, sometimes mimicking the movements in an effort to understand. It was slowly getting to the point where I didn't have to slow down for him to understand. I did dumb down my vocabulary quite a bit, however, and tried to steer away from any larger words, words that would be harder to interpret.

Once I caught John reading my lips, his own lips moving along with mine, just barely behind me. I stopped talking quite suddenly and he looked up at me, blinking in confusion.

"Sherlock?"

"Do you want to try to learn BSL?" I asked. "Sign language?"

John's brow furrowed, trying to understand. I dug through my memory and signed the first few letters of the alphabet to him. His eyes flicked down to my hand and then widened.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed excitedly. I grinned.

"I take that as a yes."

* * *

Angry. I am angry. I am always angry. Which makes me angry.

Sherlock is always helping. He's patient. He shouldn't be. It makes me angry.

I'm trying. Trying to understand. Trying to know what he's saying. He's so patient. I'm still not understanding.

He stops. Looks at me.

"Sherlock?" I ask, hiding my anger.

He says something. Slow. It's a question. But what? I watch his mouth, trying. His hand moves.

He's signing! A... B... C... D...

Sign language!

I look up, understanding. "Sherlock!"

He smiles. He's happy. I've made him happy. I've made him happy and it makes me happy. It's nice. I'm not angry.


	5. Part Five

With the use of sign language things got a lot easier for both John and myself. I also learned that John hadn't lost the ability to read, which opened up another form of communication. It also meant, however, that I had to be more careful. Mycroft was keeping me informed of his progress in hunting down Moriarty through email, and one day John noticed the name of the consultant criminal on my laptop screen. It took me a moment to figure out why he was having a panic attack. I didn't make that mistake again, but it was nice to know that John recognized who had done this to him.

When I realized he could read I asked Mrs. Hudson to make regular trips to the library. We started out small and easy with picture books (a lot of Dr. Seuss), but John quickly progressed to more advanced reading. It wasn't long before Mrs. Hudson brought the Harry Potter series for him to read.

I found him on the couch one day, completely enraptured. He looked up to me, grinning and signed ' _Have you read these? They're so much fun!_ '

I returned the grin. How could I not? It was so nice to see him genuinely happy. "I haven't read much fiction," I replied, walking to sit beside him. His eyes widened and he put the book down (I think he was on the sixth one?) forcefully. He practically flew off the couch to the stack of library books, found the first Harry Potter book, and shoved it into my hands.

' _Read it_.'

How could I argue with the look on his face? He looked so free and excited. It wasn't like I had any cases anyway. I'd stopped taking cases when he'd first disappeared. All that mattered was finding John. And now all that mattered was helping him.

John learned BSL rapidly, faster even than me. He improved in reading my lips as well. Meanwhile I started eating a little more. I was still too on edge to sleep, however. Even though things were quickly getting better during the day, things were actually worse during the night. His PTSD had been bad before all of this. Now it was plain awful. It made my blood boil, which I related to Mycroft, demanding good news on the chase to find Moriarty.

I should've seen it coming. I had no one to blame but myself. I knew full well that my body was taking a beating from John's thrashings, not enough nutrition, and lack of sleep.

One morning, as John was dishing up breakfast (I'd made omelets), I was walking to the sitting room to check my email. Suddenly the room shifted. Completely swayed in my vision. I gripped the door frame, blinking against the overwhelming grey. I think I heard John calling my name, but it was distant and faint. And then I lost the battle against the grey.

* * *

The omelet looks delicious. I hope Sherlock will eat some today. He doesn't eat enough. He never has. I remember that.

I turn to take my food to the sitting room. I want to finish reading Harry Potter. I've only got a few chapters left on the last book and I'm really excited to see how it ends.

Sherlock stops walking. He sways a bit and holds onto the door frame. I frown.

"Sherlock?"

He doesn't answer, he just keeps swaying.

And then suddenly he topples over.

I throw my plate on the table and run to him, turning him over. He's not awake. I shake him again and again, crying his name. He can't do this to me, he can't. He's supposed to take care of me, this isn't fair. What is wrong? Why is he doing this? I'm scared. I'm so, so scared.

I feel myself slipping. I'm slipping and I'm going to get one of those attacks that scare Sherlock so much. (He'll never admit they scare him, but I know. I can tell.) I grab Sherlock's hand. I can't leave. I can't. Sherlock needs help and I know it. If I have an attack, he won't get help. I won't be able to help.

But how do I help anyway? Through tears, I look around the room wildly. His phone! I leave Sherlock's side for only a moment to grab his phone. I quickly run back to him, grab his hand again, to keep me from slipping. I find Mycroft's name in the contacts and call.

I can't hear anyone, of course. But I know he has to be there. Mycroft always answers his phone. Even if he doesn't, I can leave a message, right? I need to tell him Sherlock's not okay, that something's wrong...

But how?

"Mmm..." I can do this. I can do this. I can talk. I know I can. "Mmmm..."

I stop for a moment, breathe.

"Mmmmmycroft." I did it! I did it, I said Mycroft's name!

Sherlock needs help. I need to let him know Sherlock needs someone. Someone more capable than me.

"Help _,_ " I say desperately, looking down to Sherlock, fighting the panic. "Sherlock. Help. At home. Help."

I drop the phone to hold Sherlock's hand with both of mine. "Sherlock..." I whisper. "Be okay..."


	6. Part Six

I don't know how long I was out. I never worked up the nerve to ask John. Really, I just tried to pretend the whole incident didn't happen. I didn't delete it; no, if I did that, I could just make the mistake over again and I would be damned if that happened.

I woke up in my bed with a pounding headache. Immediately I recognized the extra weight on the mattress and opened my eyes blearily to see John sitting on the edge, fidgeting uncomfortably. I reached out and touched his arm gently. John jumped slightly, startled, but his expression changed like it was on a switch. He stood suddenly and stormed out the room, leaving me blinking in confusion after him.

Tenderly, I pulled myself to a sitting position and took a few deep breaths, realization of what had happened slowly sinking in. Had I really been idiotic enough to let it get to this point? Apparently so. I could only imagine how terrified John must have been.

Only a few moments later, John came back in, a plate with buttered toast in his hands. He shoved it in my face.

"Eat."

I blinked. "What?" I asked stupidly. His eyes flicked down to my lips briefly and his glare intensified.

"Eat," he repeated. I took the plate slowly, still staring at him. He was  _talking_. Yes, he'd been saying my name for a while now, but he'd just said another word! My confusion had to have been showing very plainly for, as he sat back down on the edge of my bed, he explained.

"Mycroft. Your phone."

"Oh," I said simply, picking up the toast and nibbling on it. I could feel John watching me carefully. So I looked up to meet his eyes. Immediately, his expression hardened again.

"Never again," he said firmly. I swallowed thickly. It wasn't hard to figure that this anger was only masking how terrified he had been and probably still was.

"Never again," I agreed quietly with a small nod. And I meant it. Realizing even just the surface of John's fear was enough to ensure that.

That night John had a particularly bad PTSD attack. I had been sort of waiting for it all day, really. I ended up cradling him in my lap, sitting on the couch, as he came down from it. I thought over the consequences of my foolishness as he drifted to sleep and soon was just thinking about everything that had happened since I had come home to find John missing. I had stopped everything, given everything up, without a moment's hesitation, all for John.

...When had I started to care?

With a small sigh, I looked down at John. His breath had deepened: he must've fallen asleep. I realized I was perfectly all right with that. I leaned down and pressed my lips against his hair.

Suddenly John stilled. I pulled back, recognizing I'd been wrong. He was still awake. Slowly, he sat up and looked up to stare at me with wide, shocked eyes. I stared back, waiting. What else could I do? Blubber some excuse? No thank you.

We stared at each other for quite a long pause. Then his eyes flicked to my lips. Not unusual, no, but I hadn't said anything. And both of us knew that. Besides, there was some soft, tender emotion behind those blue eyes that wasn't there when he was trying to read my lips. Hesitantly, John leaned forward.

And he kissed me.

And I kissed him back.

I believe my brain shorted out at that point. I don't know how long the kiss lasted. It was sweet and chaste, though, I know that. But it wasn't the kiss that made my heart swell happily within my chest. It was afterwards, when John pulled back. And he simply smiled.

* * *

I am just so tired. There's really no other way to put it. Plain old, down to the bone tired. The whole ordeal had just been so taxing and now I am ready to just sleep. I'm scared, too, of course, like always. But after an attack like that... And Sherlock's just so comfortable...

I'm slipping into sleep. I'm trying to fight it, but I know I'm losing that battle.

And then Sherlock kisses me.

Well, okay, he kisses my hair. He probably thinks I'm asleep already, but I'm not. I can feel that.  _Sherlock Holmes just kissed me_.

I sit up and stare at him, trying to figure out what just happened. He stares right back, not offering any explanation. But he looks wary, uncertain.

I start to realize how much Sherlock has been doing. Obviously he'd been doing so much he hadn't been eating or sleeping... And I never would have thought Sherlock would stop taking cases. I don't think he knows that I've realized that one yet. But he hasn't taken a single case since I came home. His whole life is revolving around me and helping me.

It frustrates the hell out of me. I hate being so helpless like this. But I've also accepted that I am just that: helpless. But Sherlock's helping me become less so. More and more everyday.

I think I should be surprised. But I'm not.

I lean forward and I press my lips against his. They're soft and warm. Just as every bit of perfect as the rest of this impossible man. Good heavens. I love him.


	7. Part Seven

The next couple weeks were strange. For me, at least. Things, I suppose naturally, progressed between John and myself. We started sleeping together. And when I say sleeping, I mean actually sleeping. I wasn't about to bring up the idea of sex with John, and he didn't bring it up either. It was bizarre enough for me to be so comfortable with him as physical as it was. John was infinitely more relaxed, however, so the few moments I was on the verge of panicking about the physicality I was able to pull myself back down with that reality. The sleeping together part was probably the most beneficial for both us. I suppose since our subconscious minds knew the other was right next to us, we were both able to finally get some decent sleep.

Getting sleep made a world of difference for both of us. John's mood became infinitely more stable; happy, even. His violent attacks became few and long between. When they did happen, they weren't usually as horrific. They were still bad and there was still one or two that were just as terrible, but they were getting better. That's what mattered.

His speech was steadily improving. Slowly, he began to form full sentences. Every now and again he would get frustrated and would have to sign something to me, but it was happening less often every day. I was able to focus more on learning sign and finally began to catch on. John attributed it to my getting more sleep and food, but that's clearly not true.

The best part of all of these changes was that John was actually recognizing his own improvements. Whereas before he'd only see his faults and failures and get angry and frustrated, now he was seeing his successes. This significantly helped his mood which, in turn, helped me relax.

In fact, I soon got to the point where I was confident enough that John could take care of himself that I started fiddling with my science equipment again. John noticed, of course, and thoroughly encouraged it. He would read and I would experiment. This arrangement worked well for both of us. I believe that with the amount of time we had been spending with each other, exclusively focused on nothing else, would have hurt our relationship quickly now that he was less and less dependent on me.

My brain appreciated the chance to experiment as well. It had been growing stale and the stimulation was a breath of fresh air. I soon grew comfortable enough to let myself be immersed and lose myself in what I was doing. I made sure to keep John somewhat close (I was more comfortable with that anyway since we'd fallen into a romantic relationship) but focused completely on what I was selfishly working on. I figured I could kill two birds with one stone and practice my signing as well, which helped organize my rusty and rampant thoughts. Apparently John noticed this.

One afternoon I realized suddenly he had been watching me for a couple minutes. More specifically, he'd been watching my hands. I stopped as soon as I noticed and he looked up, grinning. I frowned at him, confused.

"What is it?" I asked. He took a moment to read my lips and then shook his head, still grinning wildly.

"Your sign. Doesn't make any sense," he said shortly. I glanced down at my hands, slightly embarrassed. To be perfectly honest, I hadn't even realized I had been signing in the first place. I looked back up at him and did the first thing that came to mind: I stuck my tongue out at him.

John burst into laughter. Which, I suppose, was completely warranted but it took me off guard. I suddenly realized I hadn't heard him actually laugh since before his disappearance. I grinned at him, chuckling lowly, before swooping over and giving him a kiss on the forehead. I had no idea how else to say it. To say thank you. You're doing well. I've missed you. We're getting through this. And we're doing it together.

* * *

The book is getting boring. "The Hobbit" had been so much fun, I had decided to try "The Lord of the Rings". That is proving to be a lot harder. I give up for the moment and look up to where Sherlock is. I'm so happy he's doing something for himself again. I can tell he's enjoying it.

Sherlock is very into what he's doing. I don't get it at all, of course, but I don't think I ever did, even before all of this. He steps back for a moment, I guess to catch up with his thoughts. That seems to be the best guess because his hands start moving, start signing. I watch them, trying to follow along, see if maybe I can understand what he's doing.

I'm immediately hopelessly confused. And it's not because his thought process is too advanced for me, it's simply because his sign makes  _no sense_. Star-laugh-dark-knife-chemical-orange-Chinese...

I'm grinning. If it works for him, that's fine, but it's still amusing to watch. Especially when I see absolutely no connection between anything that he's signing. Suddenly he looks up, noting my smile. He frowns and asks what it is.

"Your sign," I say. "Doesn't make sense."

He glances down at his hands which have frozen in place. It's so funny. Then he looks up at me again and he sticks his tongue out at me! Like a five-year-old!

And then I'm laughing. It's simple, it's small, but it's still funny. And I just wonder how I became the lucky one to be here with Sherlock. To be able to call him mine. It baffles me. And I love it. Almost as much as I honestly just straight out love him.


	8. Part Eight

"Sherlock, look at this."

I looked up. We were sitting at the desk eating breakfast. Well, John was eating. I was on my laptop, typing up some notes from an experiment I had been working on. John was also reading the paper which I'd already glanced through and had quickly discarded. He was pointing to that article, of course. That one that had caused me to discard it so quickly. I gritted my teeth and turned back to my laptop.

"This is your sort of thing, Sherlock!" John cried. I could feel his eyes boring into me, frustrated and confused. I ignored him, trying to shut down that part of my brain and focusing completely on my notes.

He was right, though. The article was about a case the Yard was working on. As it would have it, Lestrade was even the one on the case. Quadruple murder, seemingly random but same style, no suspects whatsoever to go on. It was rather embarrassing for the Yard and Lestrade, really. And it  _had_  caught my eye. It had excited that old, hidden part of me that hadn't had a chance to show itself in a year. But I couldn't. I had sworn off taking cases to take care of John. He needed me. I couldn't very well drag him along to crime scenes and drag up nightmares that he was just starting to be relieved of. And I was not about to leave him home alone. He still needed me there.

Rolled up newspaper thwacking me in the head snapped me out of my thoughts and I looked back up to John with a glare. He was glaring right back already.

"Call Lestrade. You can help."

I shook my head, turning once again back to my laptop. "He's fine."

"He is not!" John barked after a moment. I had mumbled, I realized, meaning he probably had had a harder time reading my lips. "They have no leads! Four people are dead already, Sherlock! You know you can do this and I know you want to, so why won't you?"

I looked up again, jaw tense, and stared at him stonily. "You know why."

John's glare dropped and he stared at me, lips parted slightly and eyebrows crinkled sympathetically, and then sighed. I hissed at him before stubbornly looking back to my laptop and stabbing at the keyboard.

I felt utterly ridiculous. I hated it. Really, I did. I hated that I loved John so much that I would give up being a consulting detective. The one thing that had made life interesting. Until John came along, that is. He made things even more interesting and apparently I had decided that he was all I needed. Which I wasn't arguing with, no, but it didn't mean that I didn't want to solve crimes. I did enjoy that. But I wasn't about to give up John to do it.

"Sherlock."

It was the quiet tone of his voice that made me look up this time. He sighed again, this time with a small sort of smile.

"I'm fine. You know that, right?"

I growled at him. "You're deaf. Recovering from trauma. Haven't left this flat in six months. Still have nightmares and PTSD attacks. Still jump three feet in the air when startled. You are most certainly  _not_  fine."

"Send Mrs. Hudson up, then."

I let out a loud bark of bitter laughter. "Because if something were to happen, an eighty some old lady with a bad hip could really help."

"What could happen?" John pushed, putting the paper down and leaving his chair to kneel down in front of me. He took my hands in his, pressing my fingers against his lips. "I'll be fine, Sherlock. If I need you, I can always call you. You could have Mycroft put an extra watch on the flat if it'll make you feel better. But I've seen how itchy you are to go out and do something. I saw your reaction to that article. You  _want_  to go.  _I_  want you to go."

My lips twitched and I nudged his chin so he'd look up at me. "You want to get rid of me, hm?" I said softly with a smile. John rolled his eyes and pulled himself back up to his feet, tugging at my hands. I stood up as well.

"Go. I'm not going anywhere. You'll have fun.  _Go_."

I didn't do anything for a few more moments, staring at John, weighing the options. Then I grinned, dropped his hands, and snatched up my coat from where it had been gathering dust on the back of the door. As I threw it on and grabbed my scarf as well, John's words replayed in my head, one thing he said reminding me of something.

"Oh, John, I've been meaning to tell you. Mycroft said he might've found an operation to help bring back your hearing. If you're interested, we can talk about it more when I get home. I'll have Mrs. Hudson check on you regularly, all right? Ta!" And I was off, the adrenaline already pumping through my veins.

* * *

I can pick out the exact moment Sherlock decides to go. It happens a split second before the grin. There's a light in his eyes, a light I haven't seen since before... since before everything. A light that means excitement and brilliance and everything about Sherlock that makes Sherlock Sherlock. It's one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. Then he grins, drops my hands, and is throwing on that long black coat and blue scarf. It takes me a moment to realize he's talking as well and I have to really focus on the movement of his mouth to figure out what he's saying. Even then, the door's been shut behind him for a few more moments before it really makes sense.

_Mycroft said he might've found an operation to help bring back your hearing._

An operation.

To help bring back my hearing.

Bring back my hearing.

I'm stunned. I have to sit down in my armchair to let this sink in. I had never considered that I would ever be able to hear again. I had accepted, probably before I had realized what had happened, that I wouldn't hear for the rest of my life. I don't even know how long I had been deaf. It had happened sometime when I was... I was gone, but I don't know when. I don't even know how long I had been... gone. I'd never asked. I don't think I want to know.

But I might get my hearing back. I might be able to not have to stop everything and focus on Sherlock's lips or hands to understand what he's saying to me. I might be able to hear his voice. I might be able to hear the rustle and bustle of London outside my window. I might be able to hear my own voice. I might be able to _hear_.

Suddenly I'm extremely impatient for Sherlock to solve the case and get home.


	9. Part Nine

After that first case, I started taking on more. I didn't go out as often as I used to since I still had to take care of John. He was very excited about the idea of getting his hearing back so we talked some more to Mycroft to get details. It didn't take long before the morning of the operation had come. It was a bit of a struggle to get John out of the flat as he hadn't left since his return, but we managed.

The operation seemed to take forever. Mycroft made snide comments about my wearing a hole in the floor with my pacing, but I ignored him. Finally the doctor came out and told us it had gone well and John would be up within the hour. I quickly went to John's side to wait impatiently.

It's an interesting fact that there really is an amazing amount of sound almost everywhere you go. Especially in the middle of a city like London. There are constantly sirens going off, horns blaring, cars speeding, people yelling, etc. You get used to it, though, when you hear it every day. It's background noise and doesn't affect you.

When John woke up, his eyes fluttered blearily for a moment before snapping open wide. He clapped his hands over his ears and started thrashing. I was completely taken off guard. Luckily, I regained my senses quickly and wrapped my arms around him as if he were having a PTSD attack. Mycroft must have heard the tussle, as I heard him burst through the door. I ignored him, though. John needed me.

Slowly, John started to relax. Then he tensed again, this time with some force, and pushed himself out of my arms. I let him, watching him carefully as his jaw visibly tensed and relaxed several times before he met my gaze with a shuddering exhale.

"Sh-Sherlock?" he said in a whisper. I grinned as I saw his eyes brighten at the sound of his own voice.

"Hello, John, " I said lowly. He looked up to my gaze again, eyes wide and bright.

"Good heavens, has your voice always been that low?"

I chuckled. "Since puberty."

John smiled back, a bit weakly, and looked around, eyes lingering on the window. "London's always been this loud, hasn't it?"

"Yes."

John nodded shakily, steeling himself up. "I'll get used to it, I suppose."

I smiled. The pride that was welling up inside of me was actually surprising. John was figuratively letting go of my hand. He was walking out on his own. He was doing so well and I was shocked by how proud of him I was.

"Yes," I said, leaning forward to give him a quick kiss. "You will."

* * *

Sound

Noise

Too much sound

I can't think

Loud

Noise

Sound

Stop

_I can't think!_

Arms, strong, familiar, Sherlock

Breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe

Slowly things start coming back to me. With great effort, I force all of those sirens, horns, and yelling to the background and focus, focus on Sherlock. I'm fine, I'm past this point, this point of not being able to even form sentences in my own thoughts. I'm better.

And I can  _hear._

I pull myself out of Sherlock's arms. I need to do this on my own. I can do this on my own, I know I can. I'm better. It's been so long since... everything, I can do this. I'm better. Finally, I look up to Sherlock.

"Sh-" I can hear my voice! "Sherlock?"

"Hello, John."

My heart jumps into my throat for a moment as I stare at Sherlock. I can hear him! That's Sherlock's voice! That beautiful, rich, deep tone...

"Good heavens, has your voice always been that low?" I ask because it had surprised me. Maybe it just seems different because it's been so long. Or because we're romantically together? I don't know. It seems deeper, though. And then, damn, that chuckle...

"Since puberty."

I let out a laugh, but it's weak and we both know it. I look around. It's still so incredibly loud. I find the window, where all of that noise is coming from, and stare at it uneasily. "London's always been this loud, hasn't it?" I ask quietly.

There's a short beat, then: "Yes."

I nod. I can do this. It'll be fine. I can do this. I can do this. "I'll get used to it, I suppose."

"Yes," Sherlock says, kissing me chastely. "You will."

And I will. I know I will. I have to. For Sherlock. Because he's done so much and I can see how excited he is, every time I make an improvement. It's like he's getting little bits of who I used to be back. I wonder if he realizes I'll never really be that same person. Not after... everything. I can't. But I can try. I can get close. I will. For Sherlock.

Because I don't think I could handle his disappointment if I didn't.


	10. Part Ten

I woke up early one morning to a strangely cold bed. Throwing on a dressing gown, I trudged out of the room to find John sitting on the couch with his laptop, right where I had left him the night before. His eyes were fixed on the glow of the screen and he looked very into whatever he was doing. I frowned and moved to sit next to him, curling my legs beside me.

"Been here all night?" I asked quietly, leaning against his arm. John looked up, a bit startled. He frowned at me for a second before looking back to the computer.

"What time is it... Oh. Uh. Wow." He turned back to me with a grimace. "Sorry. I wasn't paying attention."

I craned my neck to look at the screen. "What are you reading?" I asked. He moved the laptop so I could see better and I quickly scanned the first few lines. "Medical journals?" I sat up, watching him carefully. He kept his gaze from me, moving his laptop back to its original position.

"Yeah. Just catching up on things I've missed in the past year and a half."

My mind was racing. John had never shown any desire to keep up on his medical practices. I had never considered it. I had always just assumed he wouldn't be interested, which suited me fine. I didn't want him to possibly be exposed to situations he couldn't handle without me by his side at all times. I stayed silent as my thoughts tried to make sense of this, watching John seemingly wrestle with himself for a few moments.

"I... I'm going to talk to Sarah," he said finally, eyes still fixed solidly on the computer screen. "See what she can do about getting me a job at the surgery again. I'll-I'll probably have to take some classes first, refresh everything, but I should... be able... to, uh. To work. Again. I can handle it, at least."

"Are you sure?" I whispered hoarsely. John looked up finally and seemed a bit surprised when our eyes met. I suppose my expression was unexpected, though I'm not sure what kind of an expression it was. Horrified, perhaps. Terrified.

"Yes..." he said slowly. "I am fine, Sherlock. And I'm continually improving. I don't really need you to babysit me all the time anymore."

I had never understood what people meant by having a lump in your throat. I did now. I looked away, unwilling to let the ridiculous emotion-the hurt, the fear-be so utterly obvious to John.

"No, of course not," I said quietly, forcing my voice to stay steady. I felt John's hand grab mine.

"Hey. It's not like I'm leaving or anything. It'll just be like before. I worked then, too, remember? And you've been off taking cases a lot lately, it's not like we've been spending as much time together anyway. This will just give me something to do while you're solving crime."

"Of course." Because I was being selfish. Yes. I was being selfish, taking cases, leaving John home alone. He had encouraged it, yes, but I didn't need to take so many. I could stay home more often, be with him. He didn't need to get a job, he didn't need to take that risk.

"Sherlock," John said forcefully. I didn't respond. He sighed heavily and reached out, taking my chin and moving my head to face him. I stubbornly continued to avoid his gaze. There was another moment of frustrated silence before he spoke.

"Sherlock, this doesn't change anything. I'm just... I'm just getting better. Moving forward. I thought... I thought that's what you wanted. For-for things to be like they were. Before. I just thought..."

I looked up to him in shock. His voice was shaky and small. On the edge of panicky. No, I hadn't been selfish for taking cases, I was being selfish  _now_. By wanting to hover over him like a mother hen, not wanting him to make a single move on his own. What right did I have to stop him? He had far past the point of being able to make his own decisions. I knew that. I was overreacting over nothing.

I took both of his hands and gave them a reassuring squeeze. "No, I'm just being overprotective, I'm sorry. Why don't we go to the surgery today to see what Sarah can do?"

* * *

The surgery took him back with open arms. He didn't have as high of a position as he had before and he had been correct to assume he'd have to take some classes to refresh, but he had a job. Slowly and surely I saw him become more and more comfortable, rediscovering his little niche of life. It sounds ridiculous, in fact, it  _is_  ridiculous, but I would often find myself grinning to myself as I watched him start to really take the reins back of his own life and take charge.

And then there was that final step to things going back to normal. As much as they could anyway. It happened quite suddenly. I was rushing out of the bedroom and through the kitchen where John had already settled one morning that he had off.

"Where are you off to?" he asked.

I didn't even slow my pace, snatching my coat and pulling it on. "New case. Lestrade just phoned."

"All right."

I grabbed my scarf, wrapping it around my neck. Then what John had just said sunk in. I stopped, looking up to see he'd gotten up from where he'd been eating his breakfast and was now pulling on his own coat. He started for the door and paused, frowning at me.

"Are we going or not?"

There is a certain excitement that ran through my blood when given a particularly good case. This was a different type of excitement entirely. I felt my face split into a wide grin and bounced forward to press a kiss to his forehead.

"Let's get going," he said quietly. I took his hand and raced down the stairs. In my excitement, I wasn't fully aware of how quiet and submissive John was being. It was only in the cab on the way to the crime scene that I recognized John fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Sherlock," he said finally in a whisper, eyes locked on his knees. "Do a favor for me and don't make a big deal about this, please?"

Ah, yes. He was still recovering. We weren't immediately going to be able to fall back into old habits. Not yet. He needed to ease into this still.

I nodded, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Of course."

* * *

I don't know what makes me do it. I hadn't been thinking about it. The thought had crossed my mind, don't get me wrong, but I had  _not_  decided it would be a good idea. In fact, that had been the opposite of my thinking.

But then Sherlock walks out with that usual purposeful excitement and I don't need to ask, but I do anyway. "Where are you off to?"

It must be a really good case. He doesn't even look at me. "New case. Lestrade just phoned."

And now I'm on my feet and I'm getting my own coat. I don't even think about what I'm doing. It's like it's instinct. Which, honestly, it used to be, but not in so long. Almost two years, in fact. But I'm pulling on my coat and I'm walking towards the door. Sherlock has stopped, and he's staring at me, and it suddenly hits me why he's staring at me, but I really don't want to recognize it. But what am I supposed to do? So I stop, mind racing to figure out a way to delicately bow out of this. Maybe I'll just laugh it off and go back to my eggs. And then deal with trying ignore how heartbroken Sherlock will be.

"Are we going or not?" Really? Why have I suddenly lost control of my body? And now Sherlock's grinning and it's a grin unlike anything I've ever seen before and I don't feel so scared now with the prospect of going out and solving a crime with him. As long it's with Sherlock, I'll be fine.

He kisses me on the forehead. "Let's get going," I mumble and he grabs my hand and we're out the door.

I can do this. I know I can.

Sherlock's at my side. I can do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In light of this being near the end of the story, there are a couple things I must share.
> 
> The story of what, exactly, happened to John will ever be told. For one, John has blocked out most of it. For another, the stuff he does remember, he is not going to tell Sherlock about because it's still too fresh and too hard and too nightmarish.
> 
> In that case, I will just tell you that Moriarty locked him up in a soundproof room (one of those that swallows sound so that, even if you talk, the sound of your voice just doesn't exist-these rooms are real, they exist, it's terrifying). After letting John slowly lose his sanity there, Moriarty blasted him with sound, which is what ruined his hearing.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been a part of this story. I first published this on ff.net over six months ago, and I continue to this day to be blown away by the reception. I've been writing fanfiction for almost eight years, and I can say without a shadow of a doubt that this is the most well received story I have ever written.
> 
> Thank you to Olivia Gilbert for being the one that I would freak out to and giggle to about this story and developments in it. For being the one that I would forward particularly awesome reviews and PMs to.
> 
> Thank you all so much, I really cannot express my gratitude.
> 
> Thank you. This has been an amazing ride, largely in part to you. Yes, you, reading this. I mean you.


	11. The End

The Yard welcomed John back even more warmly than the surgery, which wasn't surprising. Lestrade was probably the most tactful: he simply gave John a strong handshake and told him they'd missed him. Everyone else made comments about my being insufferable and skirted about questions they so obviously wanted to ask. That latter aspect only become worse once they all finally realized the romantic developments of our relationship. But none of that really mattered much since we were both used to ignoring them all anyway.

Unlike everything else, once John started coming on cases again, he didn't progress slowly and surely. After the first case, he was almost as impatient as I was for the next. It was interesting, to say the least, to see John almost as excited as I was when Lestrade would phone with a triple homicide. He still would be the voice of sense as always, pointing out when I was inappropriately gleeful and such, but I could still see the sparkle in his eye.

Meanwhile, life at home started to become more intimate as well. John, actually, initiated the progression. And however much I did to hide our activities, everyone still seemed to know that our relationship was continuing to develop. At first, I was extremely annoyed by that. But then John flat out asked if that meant I was ashamed of being with him. It changed my perspective, I suppose. From that point on, I was publicly proud of having him at my side.

Not too long after that, I came to a decision I never thought I would make. I never even thought I would consider it. I made the necessary preparations almost immediately after doing the research to figure out what those preparations needed to be. Most importantly, I needed a ring. A simple gold band was what I ended up purchasing. I made dinner reservations and sent mine and John's best suits to the drycleaners.

I told Lestrade the day before that I was not to be disturbed that entire day. I had only told Mycroft my plan. John knew we were going to dinner but didn't know the significance. I suppose he probably knew something was up, especially that morning as he was getting ready for work.

"I'm picking up our suits today and I'll have that all ready for you," I told him as he brushed his teeth. "As soon as you get home tonight, we'll head over to the restaurant."

He chuckled as he spit into the sink and washed his mouth. "Sounds like a plan. I'll see you then." He gave me a kiss on the lips that lingered for a brief moment. I tried to push into something else, but John broke off with another chuckle.

"I have to get to work," he whispered, breath ghosting on my cheek. He kissed my lips briefly once more and then left.

I picked up the suits early and spent most of the day pacing the living room impatiently, barking at the clock for going too slow. I fiddled endlessly with the ring box and the ring inside of it. I put it on my own finger, staring at it contemplatively. It would have to be a short engagement I decided. A simple ceremony would be fine with me. It didn't need to be an elaborate ordeal. All I wanted was to be able to introduce John as my husband as soon as possible.

The time John was supposed to return home was nearing when my phone chimed. It was a text from him.

_Emergency at the surgery. Have to stay a bit longer, hopefully won't be too long. You go ahead to the restaurant so we don't lose the reservation. I'll be there asap. Love. -JW_

My insides clenched painfully as I quickly typed a message back to him.  _Are you all right? -SH_

Luckily he didn't take long to respond.  _I'm fine. Promise I won't be more than a half hour. Go! I love you. -JW_

I sighed heavily. This wasn't how things were supposed to go tonight.  _I love you too -SH_ , I typed back and went to get dressed.

* * *

At the restaurant, I waited. The waitress brought me a glass of water without my asking. My phone rang and I glared at the caller ID flashing Lestrade's name and number. I had very specifically told him several times  _not_  to disturb me today. I didn't care how bad I was needed, they could survive one night without me. If they couldn't, they were even more incompetent than I had always assumed.

Without realizing it, I finished off the water, and the waitress soon came scuttling over to refill it. My phone rang again, still Lestrade, several more times. I spent my time thinking of creative ways I could murder him and get away with it. Finally he seemed to give up on calling and texted. With a low growl, I read the text.

_Pick up your damn phone. -GL_

I hissed venomously at the text and snarled when it started ringing again. I viciously answered it.

"What?" I demanded. "I told you I was not to be disturbed-"

_"Oh, thank heavens. You're alive."_

I frowned, taken aback by the sound of utter relief in the Detective Inspector's voice. "What do you mean? Of course I'm alive. Why wouldn't I be?"

Lestrade ignored my question.  _"Where are you? Is Mrs. Hudson with you? What about John? I've been trying to reach him as well."_

"Mrs. Hudson is at her sister's," I replied, annoyed. "I'm at dinner. John should be on his way to meet me. He was just stopping by the flat to change after work."

There was a silence over the line. Even over the phone, I could feel the tension, which only increased my annoyance.

"Lestrade, explain to me what the hell is going on."

_"You're going to want to come home, Sherlock,"_  Lestrade said finally, voice somber.  _"221 Baker Street has burned down."_

* * *

I spent the car ride home alternatively yelling at the cabbie to drive faster and trying to call John's phone. It kept going straight to voicemail. The battery could've died, I kept telling myself. He could be still stuck at work or in a cab on the way home or to the restaurant. I didn't need to jumped to conclusions. It was dangerous to make assumptions.

I could tell the moment we turned onto Baker Street that the fire had been very controlled and very much not an accident. Someone had burned down our home on purpose. The question was whether or not they meant to scare us or harm us.

Lestrade came up to me as I climbed out of the cab. My eyes were fixed on the wreckage. There was no exaggeration in saying that 221 had been completely burned down. It was impressive, actually, as the cafe and the neighboring flat were almost perfectly fine save a few singes. And right in the middle was a smoking pile of black ash and wood. For a very brief moment, my mind played through all the critical data and experiments and momentos that were now lost. Photographs. Clothes. Trinkets. Sentimental things that I never thought I really cared about. But there was more at stake here and I knew it. I never liked paying any attention to the "feeling" of a crime scene, but I couldn't help but feel there was something far too dark in the air.

"There's a body," Lestrade said quietly when he reached my side. "Unidentified as of now, but..."

I didn't stay to hear the rest. I don't really remember walking over to where personell were kneeling over the charred and black body. I didn't pay the personell any attention; I can't even tell you who it was. I was too focused on the body.

I knelt down in the ash and debris. It was impossible to really tell who it was, though it was obviously male. They were probably already working on trying to match dental records, as that would be the only possible proof. Hair was blackened and missing completely in some areas. All skin was either a dark red or just black leather. Some clothes had melted into the skin so I couldn't tell where the skin ended and where the clothes started. My hand hovered over his face for a moment, wanting to caress it, feel the familiar soft skin... But it wouldn't be soft or familiar anymore. It was coarse. Rough. I grabbed a hand instead, forcing myself to feel past the burnt skin.

And I knew. This man was my life. Nothing mattered more in this existence than this man. I knew it was John.

* * *

Mycroft arrives just as Sherlock is getting back to his feet, a dazed and lost expression settled into his features. Lestrade greets him and fills him in, but Mycroft is focused more on his little brother. As soon as Lestrade is done talking, Mycroft goes up to Sherlock, wraps an arm around his shoulders, and leads him back to the car. Sherlock doesn't resist. Mycroft is pretty sure Sherlock isn't even aware Mycroft is there.

Mycroft sits in the back of the car with Sherlock on the way to Mycroft's mansion. Sherlock doesn't seem to realize it, but he soon pulls out a small black velvet box from his jacket pocket and starts fiddling with it. Mycroft watches curiously until the box is opened and the gold band is pulled out.

Ah. Yes. That was supposed to have been tonight, hadn't it?

Halfway to the house, Sherlock's phone chimes. Still obviously in shock, Sherlock pulls out his phone to read the text message and Mycroft manages to catch a glimpse.

_I warned you. -JM_

* * *

_"I will burn the_  heart  _out of you..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you for reading this story. If the ending totally ruined it, I apologize. I hope it didn't. That's what it was leading to from even before I actually started writing.
> 
> Also, if you're about to ask me if Sherlock seeks revenge, the answer is: I don't know. That is not part of the story. This is the story, right here. The end. Perhaps he goes blood thirsty and does go on a killing spree. Perhaps Mycroft is able to knock some sense into him and Sherlock goes back to something similar to his life before meeting John. My inclination is to say, however, that Sherlock doesn't do either of these things but, rather, loses it. His sanity breaks and he's reduced to the state that John was in at the beginning of this story. Mycroft takes care of him for the rest of his life, but one careless slip when Mycroft isn't watching and Sherlock manages to accidentally kill himself.
> 
> That's my theory. You believe what you want to.


End file.
